I began writing because it saved me from everything I ever said. And sometimes from the things that I didn’t. So I had fields within me awaiting a clean slate to then further express, and the best part of it all was getting it all out of my head. Which would take an ample amount of patience, something I may have one-upped in the last few years. So I was a writer now, yeah, I wasn’t much else but that was okay somedays. I have learned to accept what I no longer have the will to change, anyway. At least I’m honest.
That’s more than I could care to say for most of you. However I see your point, too. Feelings were disgusting, or something. Messy at best. And they had this creeping way of taking away the sensation of numbness leaving me staring blankly back at the world.
How odd it all remains.
So I went on a walk to clear my head. This type of serenity always evades me. Good thing I’m no longer jaded, rather, more practically worn. It’s a give and take. And I still gave a fuck. Still, I too felt conflicted. Not as if it were something I may ever share with you. And perhaps you didn’t really ever want to know. You asked but it was in such a manner one would ask their best friend how they looked after a two mile bike ride through winding trees and windy trails. My heart was enflamed, regardless. And still, even under the circumstances, such passion consumes me although no longer does it control or pull my waking mind to anything shy of comfortable apathy. How dare they steal the light from me; those demented half- beings bred and born to this strange realm and so brilliantly shed forth in all my known destiny. Can they yet see, in the Book of the Dead it calls to me. A headless victim in an overflowing sea. Only, mostly comforting was the still hum of your voice washing over fresh memories in my head. Let’s face it, love, the memoirs are dead.